The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
[Dear native spot though nought to thee is given] |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
516
[Dear native spot though nought to thee is given]
Dear native spot though nought to thee is given
That boasts of majesty—no mountain high
Where earths rude sounds may mix with those of heaven
No river flood that dashes proudly bye
With mighty speed—no jagged rocks that lie
Blocks piled on blocks by architect divine
Like wrecks of other worlds—yet to the eye
Of poesy full many charms are thine
Green vales & tinkling brooks & pastures thronged with kine
That boasts of majesty—no mountain high
Where earths rude sounds may mix with those of heaven
No river flood that dashes proudly bye
With mighty speed—no jagged rocks that lie
Blocks piled on blocks by architect divine
Like wrecks of other worlds—yet to the eye
Of poesy full many charms are thine
Green vales & tinkling brooks & pastures thronged with kine
& thy old woods as yet can claim & call
Thy native oak thy own that proudly towers
Boast of thy nation & the dread of all
& though the slighting sun & chilly showers
Cloaths with dank cold thy winters ague hours
Nor gives the eternal blooms some countrys claim
Yet thy sweet daughters are thy lovliest flowers
& thy rough sons that still uphold thy name
Hardened amid thy storms grow ripe for toil & fame
Thy native oak thy own that proudly towers
Boast of thy nation & the dread of all
& though the slighting sun & chilly showers
517
Nor gives the eternal blooms some countrys claim
Yet thy sweet daughters are thy lovliest flowers
& thy rough sons that still uphold thy name
Hardened amid thy storms grow ripe for toil & fame
The same sun year by year doth daily shine
Upon thy vales & brooks that lowly lie
That shines on kingdoms reckoned half divine
& the like covering of a wilder sky
Frowns on thy breast in clouded majesty
Nor finds an older soil in any clime
While the proud fingers of antiquity
Unfolds a scroll of glory fame & time
& bids thee claim thy share & struggle on sublime
Upon thy vales & brooks that lowly lie
That shines on kingdoms reckoned half divine
& the like covering of a wilder sky
Frowns on thy breast in clouded majesty
Nor finds an older soil in any clime
While the proud fingers of antiquity
Unfolds a scroll of glory fame & time
& bids thee claim thy share & struggle on sublime
Tis beautiful this wild mysterious world
That like a dream has been & still dwells on
Empires & states upon its breast are hirled
Like shadows in to nothing & are gone
But still they leave it like a might[y] one
Unconquered with fresh presevering crowds
Who quickly find their graves as those have done
& though the sky awaits as the worlds shroud
Its mystery still endures majestically proud
That like a dream has been & still dwells on
Empires & states upon its breast are hirled
Like shadows in to nothing & are gone
But still they leave it like a might[y] one
Unconquered with fresh presevering crowds
Who quickly find their graves as those have done
& though the sky awaits as the worlds shroud
Its mystery still endures majestically proud
518
Memory & time deciples unto fame
Cloaths her with pomp & grandeur leaving thee
A beauty spot on beautys form—the claim
Of natures unknown lovers such as me
Where childhood youth & manhood all agree
To love & praise thee for thy self alone
Let fortune wander my hearts home shall be
Thy memorys beauty—felt not all alone
For fireside memorys now doth mingle with my own
Cloaths her with pomp & grandeur leaving thee
A beauty spot on beautys form—the claim
Of natures unknown lovers such as me
Where childhood youth & manhood all agree
To love & praise thee for thy self alone
Let fortune wander my hearts home shall be
Thy memorys beauty—felt not all alone
For fireside memorys now doth mingle with my own
| The early poems of John Clare | |